Dear Sammy
by Azrael DiAngelo
Summary: When he was about 10 years old, Dean wrote his first suicide note.


Dear Sammy,

I fucked up. I was supposed to watch over you tonight while Dad was gone and… and I just… I was selfish. I only thought about myself and how bored out of my fucking mind I was. So I went down to the arcade a couple blocks away and spent some money I'd been saving up. I couldn't have been gone for more than fifteen minutes. I would know; I practically checked the clock every five seconds. I just needed to get out y'know? I would've taken you with me, but I didn't want to wake you up and I just needed time by myself. We've never stayed cooped up in a shitty motel room for so long and the cabin fever was frying my brain.

So I left you alone, the son of a bitch that Dad was hunting came for you, and I got the crap beaten out of me. I had it coming, but shit Sam, wasn't nearly losing you enough of a punishment? This was the most terrifying night of my life, and that's saying something considering how much shit we've gone through. I haven't seen Dad this mad since Mom died. His face was red and that wasn't just because he drank all the liquor in the fridge. I'm glad you were asleep when he threw the first punch. You're probably curious about what happened, but it didn't kill me Sammy. I want to go out on my own terms. It was bad this time though. It was really bad Sammy. At one point in the fight, Dad picked up a hammer and almost bludgeoned my foot. I had to pull my gun on him. You have to understand Sammy, I had no other choice. He stood there for a minute, like he was really thinking of bashing my head in. But then he dropped it and collapsed on the couch. You almost died and I almost killed Dad tonight. I'd like to think that the reason he didn't gank me was because he cared about me despite all the bruises and scars that argue that he doesn't.

_Maybe the only reason he hasn't killed either of us yet is because we're all that bastard has left._

Oh shit. You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? You probably think Dad was "working" and that he's still just a fucking mechanic. Well Sammy, sit down because this next stuff I'm going to write down is going to sound crazy. Mom wasn't killed by the fire, okay? It was a demon. Dad calls it Yellow Eyes for obvious reasons. Dad and I know this 'cause we're hunters. We get rid of all the monsters that go bump in the night. Uncle Bobby is one too. Monsters are real Sammy, and I'm so sorry that I have to tell you this now, but you need to know before I go. Dad has been hunting a shtriga for the past week now and it almost ate your soul or something while you were sleeping. I know it's a lot to take in, but you're a tough kid Sammy.

Sam, if there's any part of you that genuinely doesn't hate me right now, please don't turn into Dad. If you have to, leave him. Go to school, become a genius lawyer, marry a hot chick, and have kids and grandkids. Don't drink your problems away or start hunting. Don't be me. I know it's asking for a lot, but don't be mad at me. I'm never going to do anything great with my life. The best I could do is drop out of school and become a mechanic. You can be so much more, I know it. So forget about me. It'll be easier like this, I promise. And if Dad ever touches you, you kick his ass and leave all right? Then I'll haunt his ass for eternity, I need you to be okay. _I'm sorry._

- DEAN

Dean held his gun in his clammy hands as he sat outside the hotel. Tears were streaming down his face as he pressed the black metal against his temple and he didn't bother wiping them away. He was tired of wiping away tears. He was tired of being terrified. He was tired of bumps, bruises, welts, and scars. He was tired of being tired. He screwed his eyes shut and then snapped them open when he felt a presence. He looked at him with fear in his eyes.

"Dean?" Sam whispered.

Dear Sammy,

I fucked up. It's been over twenty years since I've written one of these and I still feel the same pit of despair in my stomach like I did the first time. Last time you were there to stop me, but now you're the reason I'm doing it. It's not your fault though, it's mine. I had one job; the one thing that Dad trusted me to do right and I screwed it up.

It's kind of funny how after fighting ghosts and demons, I forget that some people aren't any better than the shit we face. You're dead Sammy. You're dead because one of Yellow Eye's minions stabbed you in the back. He's a real piece of work y'know that? What kind of son of a bitch has the nerve to kill a man with his back turned? I didn't bother going after him; not when your life was bleeding out in my arms.

_I should've never taken you away from Stanford._

Bobby's telling me to bury you and give you a proper funeral, but I can't even bring myself to touch you. You're lying on my bed and your hands are so cold Sammy. I don't know what else to do. I don't even know why I'm writing this. Bobby said that you wouldn't want to be brought back by a demon only to have me die in a couple of years, so it's not like you're going to wake up and read this anytime soon. So what do you think I'm going to do? I miss you Sammy. I need you to be okay, but I know you're not. I would say that I'll see you at the pearly gates, but we both know I'm probably heading south for the winter when all of this blows over. _I'm sorry._

- DEAN

Again, Dean found himself with a gun in his hands and experience didn't stop them from trembling uncontrollably. In fact, knowing what a weapon in his hands was capable of doing only seemed to make the tremors worse. He feels his left hand wrap around his right wrist to steady it. It all feels so surreal. He feels strangely calm sitting in the woods about a mile away from Bobby's scrap yard, yet he can't seem to calm his nerves. There aren't any tears this time. He's already been a pussy for most of his life, so he's sort of glad that he can be slightly tough as he ends it all with the coward's way out. No, there weren't any tears this time, but rather a melancholy and weighted look on the young features of his face; a sigh of relief as he pulled the trigger. There were flashes of blue and white. For the briefest moment, Dean Winchester truly believed that he was saved.

The next day, he opened his eyes and was as healthy as his eating habits allowed him to be as he sold his soul to save his brother. A year later, he went on a road trip to hell.

Dear Sam,

I fucked up. But that's what I always do, isn't it? Did I ever tell you how many times I've thought about doing this?

1. The night of the shtriga attack.

2. Cold Oak.

3. Stull Cemetery.

4. You being soulless.

5. You hallucinating

6. Cas dying

7. Post- Purgatory.

8. Now.

It's not your fault Sam; it's never your fault. This is different from the other times, I promise. This time I'm not going out with the bang from my gun. I'm going out swinging the First Blade as I slice Metadouche's head off. I'm going out getting Cas his grace back, breaking into Heaven if I need to. I know I'm not going to make it through this, but that's okay. I'm going out saving you.

If I actually manage to survive by some goddamn miracle, I'm offing myself. The mark is making me a monster. I can feel it every time I hold that blade. It feels like the other times that I tried to off myself; it's the same calm, but without the nerves. All I feel is power and it's getting into my head, Sam. So I'm going to leave before I become what I hunt. I want to die a hero, not live long enough to see myself become the villain. I won't be sorry for this. I could never be sorry for saving you. So I just want you to know that even if you won't bring me back, I will always find away to keep you breathing. I'm a stubborn son of a bitch.

- DEAN

P.S. – Yeah, that totally was a line from The Dark Knight trilogy. You wouldn't know since you watch chick flicks, bitch.

P.S.S. – I need you and Cas to be okay. Team Free Will, baby.

P.S.S.S. – _I'm proud of us._

He felt his body shut down as the blade pierced his organs. He curses as he sees Sam rushing toward him and Metatron getting away. Sam's arms grip his shoulders and he vaguely feels like he's rising off the ground. Dying never stops feeling fake, as if it's just temporary and he can just wave it off as a silly nightmare. At least, that's how his body feels right now. He's there, but he's not _there_. He feels numb. He's shaking, slipping, but he feels calm. The last thing he remembers is being happy about something. Maybe he just gave Baby a wash? Did Mom make him his favorite pie? No, he was proud of something. _Proud of Sammy. Proud of Cas. __**Proud of us.**_ He sees flashes of red and hopes for blue; hopes that one angel in particular is watching over him. He prays even though he knows he can't be saved. Everyone always knew which direction he would be heading.

Dean Winchester opens his eyes and the world is tinted black.


End file.
